A Rather Cunning Muggle-Born
by xXSlasherXx
Summary: "You are a young girl of academic clarity, and now you become a House rarity…" Hermione was growing quite bemused by the Sorting Hat's cryptic words. What did he mean by rarity? But her befuddlement would soon be engulfed by blatant shock at the name she would hear. Its sort decided, the hat vigorously bellowed, "SLYTHERIN!" Slytherin!Hermione AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Welcome to the first installation of _The Cunning Muggle-Born saga,_ dear readers. I do hope you enjoy. Rather you like it or hate it, reviews are appreciated.

* * *

 **A Surprising Sorting**

 _First Year_

Green hills rose and rolled past Hermione Granger's pensive gaze as the Hogwarts Express chugged through the Highlands, gradually making its ingress into the vicinity of Hogwarts. _Hogwarts: A History_ laid in her lap (she had to have read the book three times prior to her boarding the train) and her fingers drummed lightly against its spine. It was heavy thinking spells such as these that guided her to seclusion and the sole company of her thoughts. Enlightened of her place in the world of magic but a small while ago, her mind was still gluttonous for an unspecified quantity of facts and notes that would put her far before most of her class. No different than how it had been at her Muggle school, really…Well, excuse her drive!

Knowledge is power, after all. Though…her context of that philosophy was a tad foregrounded.

She jumped in her seat and out of her reverie when the compartment's door slid open, and a frantic boy with a round face came scrambling in, searching the floor with desperation.

Hermione blinked. "Is…everything alright there?"

His head shot up as though surprised by her presence. "Trevor! M-My _toad!_ I can't find him anywhere!" The boy was blubbering and trembling, and tears were pooling at the corners of his distraught eyes. Hermione was quite taken aback by how this boy visibly regarded the loss of his toad as a dire situation. Hermione's personality was an unyielding one at best, but her clumsy first acquaintance's dismay compelled her to offer some aid.

She stood and gingerly grasped his heaving shoulders. "Settle down, settle down. I'll…help you find him. What is your name?"

He dabbed the waterfalls leaking from his eyes with his sleeve. "N-Neville."

"Neville…?"

"Neville Longbottom," he lowly finished.

Hermione helped him to his feet, her face empathetic. "Can you remember where you saw him last?"

Both children exited the compartment in search of Neville's beloved amphibian. They parted to separately survey the other compartments and ask other passengers if they had spotted Trevor. She had already changed into her robes; the crest would remain gray until after the Sorting Ceremony, when all the uniforms would assume the colors of the House their wearers were sorted into. It was at that moment that Hermione realized she hadn't given much thought to which House she would want to be put in. She consulted her mental summaries of each House and their desired traits:

 _Hufflepuff: The most inclusive of the four Houses; values hard work, dedication, loyalty, patience, and intrepidness towards toil. Its emblematic animal is a badger, and the House corresponds to the element of earth. (It is noteworthy that Hufflepuff has produced the smallest number of Dark wizards.)_

 _Gryffindor: The House that greatly emphasizes courage, chivalry, daring, nerve, and determination. Its emblematic animal is a lion, and the House corresponds with the element of fire._

 _Slytherin: The House accepts those who are cunning, resourceful, and ambitious; also those who bear a fixed sense of self-preservation. Its emblematic animal is a snake, and the House corresponds to the element of water. (Slytherin bears a Dark reputation due to its founder's aversion of teaching those of Muggle heritage, and also from the most feared Dark wizard having come from the House.)_

 _Ravenclaw: Members of this House are characterized by their wit, learning, and wisdom. Its emblematic animal is an eagle, and the House corresponds to the element of air._

Ravenclaw sounded quite lovely. Hermione was quite the studious child, so perhaps there was where she might be best suited…

Neville had flanked beside her once more when they approached the compartment messy with wrappings and empty containers of various confections. The occupants were two boys: one red-haired and the other cute and skinny with green eyes and glasses. She cleared her throat. "Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," she said.

"We've already told him we haven't seen it," said the boy with red hair, but his words went unheard the moment Hermione's eyes fell upon the wand in his hand. She was suddenly intrigued.

"Oh, are you doing magic?" She casually strolled into the compartment and sat. "Let's see it, then."

He blinked. "Er―alright." He cleared his throat, pointed his wand to the rodent in his lap, and recited a rather inane incantation:

 _"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,_

 _Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow."_

Hermione had to fight back an amused grin at nothing _slightly_ magical being invoked by the spell. "Well it certainly was effective on the rat's _teeth,_ if that was your intention."

He shot her a dirty look while the bespectacled boy giggled lowly. A giggle that was innocent yet reserved, she quaintly observed.

"Are you certain that was a _real_ spell?" she lightly questioned. "Nobody in my family's magic at all, but I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me―"

She observed that the boy with glasses was listening with humble attentiveness, while the boy with red hair's eyes were narrowed in irritation. She had always had a vexing habit of prattling on about her academic strengths, but she was conscious of when people were becoming weary of her self-flattering loquacity.

Following a half-hearted chuckle, she chose to introduce herself. "I'm Hermione Granger, by the way. Who are you?"

"Ron Weasley," he tartly muttered.

"Harry Potter," said the boy with glasses.

Her heart didn't leap per se, but experienced a slightly past-normal pulsation of astonishment. This was Harry Potter? Seated across from her so casually? This was The Boy Who Lived?

This time she was too excited to hold her tongue. "Are you really? I know all about you, of course―I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in _Magical Modern History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century."_

"Am I?" he incredulously gasped.

She nodded. "Do either of you know what House you'll be in? I've been asking around, and I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad…Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon." She hoped that she hadn't come off as too much of a prim know-it-all as she exited the compartment with Neville.

She was able to decipher the words of Weasley's cold hiss when she slid the door shut: "Whatever House I'm in, I hope she's not in it! What an insufferable know-it-all!"

She blinked. It was such a cruel comment for him to direct towards her―and yet she was fighting back laughter instead of tears.


	2. Chapter 2

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall courteously greeted. "The start-of-term feast will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your Houses. The sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your House will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend free time in your House common room."

Hermione was the only girl of her age who could be mesmerized by an entrance hall's medieval décor all the while taking in the words of an introductory welcome. It wasn't that Hermione was disinterested by Professor McGonagall's words, she'd just already become familiar with the history of the four Houses and the process of the Sorting Ceremony, in addition discovered a considerable amount of facts and notes regarding Hogwarts she guaranteed no other first-year had thought to seek. She hadn't been conscious of McGonagall's brief exit until she heard Harry speaking to―what was his name again?―Ron.

"How exactly do they sort us into Houses?" he asked.

"Some sort of test, I think," Ron replied. "Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was just joking."

Hermione was befuddled at how stiff Harry's person went at Weasley's answer. He must not have been an enthusiast of academics. She shuffled past one or two first-years to playfully poke his shoulder, and flashed him an airy smile once she had his attention.

"I promise you, Potter, the Sorting Ceremony is no form of a written test," Hermione assured. "The founders just didn't have the vision, sadly…"

As quickly as it came, the apprehension in Harry's emerald peepers departed, a chuckle escaping the consoled boy's lips. Hermione was clueless as to where it originated, but there was something about the Potter-boy that made her want to keep his mind clear of any worry or inaccuracies that would send him into pre-semester hysterics. It would be nice to keep a fellow new-to-wizardry schoolmate company, maybe exchange first-experience observations, even!

"For the sake of wonder, I'll keep the official process of the Sorting Ceremony a secret, but it is painless," she said. "So no need to be fearful."

"Well that's a relief! I remember you. Hermione, right? You know a lot about the school?"

She nodded. "I practically have _Hogwarts: A History_ memorized word-for-word. Nothing too impressive, though. You should take a look yourself and see what keeps your interest."

"Perhaps I shall," he enthusiastically replied.

"I'll be sure to lend you a copy after the start of term," she said. "I've read it quite a number times, so keep it as long you'd like."

"Can I really? That's very nice of you…"

"Think nothing of it," she replied. "I plan to become an influential scholar after I've left Hogwarts. Many consider the wand or the sword to be the mightiest weapon, but, in my steadfast belief, the mind itself can be the most lethal weapon, dependent of the tactfulness of the wizard who possesses it. And, so long as a library's resources remains growing, that power is perpetual."

Ron's orange eyebrow twitched at the back of Harry's head. Being so casually excluded did not sit well with him, especially while his newfound friendship was being undermined by a particular frizzy-haired hindrance by the name of Hermione Granger.

"How's 'bout you, Ron?" Harry thoughtfully spoke.

Ron shook himself from his simmering stupor. "What? What, now?"

Harry repeated his unheard question. "What do you plan on doing once you're out of Hogwarts?"

Even Hermione was listening politely.

"Well…I've never really given much thought to―"

The collective shrieks that sounded from the group silenced him. At least twenty spectral figures had streamed through the back wall. Hermione laughed over the screams at Harry jumping nearly a foot in the air. Some of the ghosts observed or conversed with the newcomers to Hogwarts.

"New students!" exclaimed a ghost who Hermione recognized as the Fat Friar. "About to be Sorted, I suppose? Hope to see you in Hufflepuff! My old House, you know."

Professor McGonagall returned shortly and sharply commanded the group to form a line before leading them through the double doors into the spacious Great Hall. Its structure was as surreal as _Hogwarts: A History_ had described: candles floating in midair over four long tables, and a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. Hermione caught Harry's enchanted awe as he stared, enthralled, up at the ceiling.

"It's bewitched to look like the sky outside," she wondrously whispered to him. "Looks as though there's no ceiling there at all, doesn't it?"

Harry nodded, still captivated by the sight. "It's beautiful…"

From the dreamy tone in Harry's response, Hermione could tell that he was referring to Hogwarts as whole and not just the bewitched ceiling. And she was confident in her guess because, while she had studied all there was to know of her future alma mater, metaphorical butterflies were fluttering furiously in her gut. Hogwarts distributed more splendorous anticipation in Hermione than any silly amusement park ever had.

The shuffling group was halted at the top of the hall, where there was another table in which the teachers were seated. Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool before the first-years. On the stool was a pointed wizard's hat, patched, frayed, and extremely dirty.

At the risk of sounding like a complete duffer, Harry whispered to Hermione, "Do we have to try to pull a rabbit out of that hat?"

Mercifully, the Sorting Hat's singing prematurely chased away the fit of laughter that Harry's question had summoned from her. Following the applause at the song's conclusion, Ron furiously whispered to Harry, "So we've just got to try on the hat! I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll."

Who Fred was, Hermione didn't ponder. She was inwardly occupied devising the perfect system that would ensure her the favor of her teachers. If she wanted to be the prodigy that she envisioned herself as, she would cram as much information into her frizzy head as accessible. With convincing coaxing, she may've been able to see that a few Prefects would turn a blind eye to allow her more time in the library and vouch for her should she be discovered. It was all in the sake of knowledge, so what was a little duplicity? At that moment, Hermione was certain that Ravenclaw was the House she would get; the gears in her head were already turning as she plotted every beneficial maneuver that would result in accumulated resources.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

When Hermione shook herself back into reality, Justin Flinch-Fletchley was hurrying with bare-faced glee to the Hufflepuffs' table. Had the Sorting already begun? Had she been so invested in the designing of her future here that her senses retreated to her mind's center?

"Granger, Hermione!"

She flashed Harry a confident smile before sprinting up to the stool and eagerly sitting upon it. McGonagall gingerly lowered the hat onto Hermione's cranium. "Ah…This mind is _chock-full_ of cleverness, and a diligent desire to achieve as much knowledge as possible…a mind crawling with the makings of a promising scholar…"

Hermione confidently smirked under the pondering hat.

"But," he continued, "the _advantages_ that come with excessive knowledge is your prime motive for wanting to utilize such. Your drive to achieve your scholastic goals practically overshadows the goals _themselves!_ I also sense a great deal of cunning amongst this ambitious brain…oh, _yes."_

Hermione was actually surprised to learn of the traits the Sorting Hat was presenting to her and the other students; though she supposed that, subconsciously, she had always had these characteristics stored in her mind. She wasn't objecting to them being there, so the Sorting Hat must have been accurate…

"Oh, it's obvious now where you belong, my dear," the Sorting Hat purred. "You are a young girl of academic clarity, and now you become a House rarity…"

Hermione was growing quite bemused by the hat's cryptic words. What did he mean by _rarity?_ But her befuddlement would soon be engulfed by blatant shock at the name she would hear.

Its sort decided, the hat vigorously bellowed, "SLYTHERIN!"


	3. Chapter 3

Under the collective claps and hoots emanating from the Slytherin table, Hermione mouthed the name of her assigned House with leveled disbelief. She hastily recollected herself once she felt the hat being lifted off her head. In the unsorted throng she spotted Harry's stiffened stature and look of apprehension, and felt something cold and hard prodding her chest. The boy she had been in cordial conversation with but minutes ago was gawking at her with lucent dread. Beside him, Weasley's orange eyebrows were raised, his expression perplexed, but soon dissolving to what appeared to be relief. And then Hermione recalled the condemning comment he had made on the train…

Her confidence had to remain (externally) steadfast, she thought. To eradicate any visible remnant of her fleeting shock, Hermione beamed convincingly and hopped off the stool, her body language elated. Though, inwardly, she regarded her overjoyed saunter to the Slytherin table congruous to skipping down a wooden plank, below which ravenous sharks awaited with empty bellies for their Muggle-born meal to come plummeting down into their wretched waters. She sat between two older Slytherins and fixated her attention to the subsequent first year (Neville Longbottom) sitting on the stool.

"Welcome to Slytherin, little fledgling," a boy seated left of her warmly greeted. Hermione turned to the affable smile of a seemly male. "Hermione Granger, right? I'm Terence Higgs."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Terence," she weakly replied, shaking his extended hand.

"Wow, you're trembling, girl," he said with concern.

There was no way for her to conceal it now. "I'm sorry. I'm quite nervous…to be in Slytherin…"

Terence chuckled. "Don't feel embarrassed, Slytherin's reputation for manufacturing bad eggs precedes the very House itself! A handful of us came close to wetting ourselves when we were sorted here as first years, but I assure you, Slytherin isn't the bastion of evil that people claim it to be." Terence's assurance earned a less-limp smile from Hermione.

"Thanks for enlightening me, but there's something else…You see, I'm a Muggle-born."

"Huh? What was that?" Terence asked, for the last word of her revelation had been drowned out by the applause that followed Draco Malfoy being made a Slytherin.

She sighed. "I said I'm a _Muggle-born."_

Terence blinked. "Is that right? Huh…So that's what the hat meant by _rarity…"_

Hermione's palms were becoming damp and her heartrate more rapid―was this that thing people called _nervousness?_ "Does…that bother you?"

"Oh, _Merlin, yes,"_ he coolly responded, his expression darkening with menace. "Remove your non-Pureblood backside from our House before we hex you into oblivion."

His change in character was so spontaneous that Hermione couldn't mask her shock: her lower lip quivered and her eyes flooded with horror. Terence then grasped her shoulder, the humanity resurrected in his eyes. "Granger, I'm _joking."_

She exhaled before angrily swatting off his hand. "I _don't_ find that very amusing!"

"It's regular for a Slytherin to have a dark sense of humor, so I would advise you become a bit more thick-skinned," he whimsically said.

"You certainly come off as thick- _witted,"_ she remarked with disdain.

"Spoken as a true Slytherin! But honestly, Granger, your blood-status―"

"Better be GRYFFINDOR!" the Sorting Hat screamed.

Harry shakily approached the Gryffindor table, sporting an expression of relief. Hermione felt inexplicably crestfallen; the fear that Harry had displayed upon her Sorting was still vivid enough to cause her to re-experience the initial pang in her chest. So she sharply averted her gaze when Harry stole a rueful glance at her. Howls of "We got Potter! We got Potter!" rushed vertically down the Gryffindor table as he took his place amongst his decided Housemates.

Terence coughed. "Anyways, Granger, don't be apprehensive, your being a Muggle-born Slytherin is no cause for―"

" _Muggle-born?"_ A dark-haired boy seated right of Hermione turned in his seat. Instantly, she was intimidated by his trollish features. She must have been quite inundated by her shock to have not noticed him the moment she'd sat down, she fearfully thought. Everything from his hulking anatomy―discernible even under his robes―to the uneven alignment and abnormal size of his teeth frightened Hermione. She laboriously suppressed a shiver invoked under his mere _gaze…_

"Oh, yeah, Flint!" Terence pointed to Hermione. "Granger here's a Muggle-born."

 _Announce it to the whole table why don't you?_ she mentally seethed. She was momentarily surprised by her ignominiousness. Since when was she embarrassed by her blood-status?

"Flint" studied Hermione for a few unsettling seconds, as though a witch of her status being in Slytherin was more bizarre a concept than the existence of magic, itself. If this was the response that nearly every other Slytherin would exhibit at the knowledge of her blood-status, she'd wholeheartedly assume a social life as a recluse while at Hogwarts.

"Is what he said true?" he grunted. "You a Muggle-born, Granger?"

All of her exertion was put into her indifferent stare, thus the most intrepid response she could muster was a solemn nod.

His reply was a wide, iniquitous grin that revealed the full size of his _large-enough-to-frighten-away-a-pack-of-werewolves_ chompers. "So we've got ourselves a brown snake, this year! This suggests a rather interesting term to come, don't it? You're bound to become the source of talk throughout Slytherin once all the hype Potter's brought cools down. Maybe _sooner…"_

Hermione―unconsciously―scooted away from Flint and his perturbing twaddle. She realized her petite frame had pressed against Terence's torso only when she felt his breath brushing past the top of her head as he chided, "Ease off, Flint! You're spookin' her!"

"I can see," he purred before turning away.

Terence soothingly patted Hermione's shoulder.

"Marcus Flint, captain of our Quidditch team," he whispered. "Charming git, isn't he?"

"He certainly knows how welcome a new student," she said uneasily.

"Before I'm cut off again, know that not every Slytherin is as _polite_ as I. And I'm not going to say that you won't encounter any supremacist brats. But the more decent of us won't be bothered by your presence―so long as what you lack in blood-purity you make up for with a shrewd mind."

Hermione's stomach lightened. While Terence had demonstrated his potential to be the posterchild for annoying boys everywhere, his welcoming nature was fairly endearing. She pondered the possibility of a small, golden fraction of a Hufflepuff existing somewhere past that Slytherin uniform.

"That's very sweet of you to say," she stated with a gracious smile, gradually starting to warm up to Terence.

He winked. "No problem."

Albus Dumbledore had commenced his welcoming speech. "Welcome! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

"Thank you!"

Hermione giggled at the eccentric headmaster's words. Following the eruption of applause, the banquet appeared before the Houses' individual tables. Animated conversations and clinks of utensils against plates soon filled the Great Hall. At the sight of the glorious repast Hermione realized she'd dedicated more time to nourishing her brain than her rumbling stomach. She began to eat, briefly feeling the emerald stare of two bespectacled eyes at the back of her head.

She didn't require 360-degree vision to know whose…


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione shuffled through the stony entrance of the Slytherin common room with her fellow first years. The space was dim with elegant gloom, and Hermione was shocked by how at-home she felt as she scrutinized the area's eerie architecture. The male prefect who'd guided them all from the Great Hall to the common room relinquished the students to a strawberry-blond girl with a vibrant smile.

"Congratulations!" she chirped. "I'm Prefect Gemma Farley, and I'm delighted to welcome you to Slytherin House. Our emblem is the serpent, the wisest of creatures; our House colors are emerald green and silver, and our common room lies behind a concealed entrance down in the dungeons. As you'll see, its windows look out into the depths of the Hogwarts lake. We often see the giant squid swooshing by―and sometimes more interesting creatures. We like to feel that our hangout has the aura of a mysterious, underwater shipwreck."

In her peripheral vision, she detected a husky boy staring in her direction. She recognized him as Gregory Goyle, the first year who'd been chatting loudly with Draco Malfoy at the start-of-term feast. Hermione's eyes were on him for but three seconds before he flashed her flirtatious smile and winked at her. She was momentarily grateful for their common room being dimmer than most, for Gregory Goyle most certainly would've made out the florid flush that had ghosted upon her cheeks.

"Now, there are a few things you should know about Slytherin―and a few you should forget," Gemma continued. "Firstly, let's dispel a few myths. You might have heard rumors about Slytherin House―that we're all into the Dark Arts, and will only talk to you if your great-grandfather was a famous wizard, and rubbish like that. Well, you don't want to believe everything you hear from competing Houses. I'm not denying that we've produced our share of Dark wizards, but so have the other three Houses―they just don't like admitting it."

Hermione couldn't help but smirk at that statement. Gemma's bubbly personality on its own was gradually debunking the theory of Slytherins―as a whole―being inherently wicked.

"And yes, we have traditionally tended to take students who come from long lines of witches and wizards, but nowadays you'll find plenty of people in Slytherin house who have at least _one_ Muggle parent," she said thoughtfully. Hermione could've sworn that Gemma had sent a fleeting, encouraging smile at her past the other students. _Just how fast does news travel around this House?_ Hermione wondered.

Malfoy, however, had scoffed and curled his lip with disgust at that particular statement.

 _Of course,_ thought Hermione tartly.

"Here's a little-known fact that the other three houses don't bring up much: Merlin was a Slytherin. Yes, Merlin himself, the most famous wizard in history! He learned all he knew in this very house! Do you want to follow in the footsteps of Merlin? Or would you rather sit at the old desk of that illustrious ex-Hufflepuff, Eglantine Puffett, inventor of the Self-Soaping Dishcloth? I didn't think so."

A wave of laughter rolled through the group of first years, Hermione included in it.

"But that's enough about what we're not. Let's talk about what we are, which is the coolest and edgiest house in this school. We play to win, because we care about the honor and traditions of Slytherin," she continued. "We also get respect from our fellow students. Yes, some of that respect might be tinged with fear, because of our Dark reputation, but you know what? It can be fun, having a reputation for walking on the wild side. Chuck out a few hints that you've got access to a whole library of curses, and see whether anyone feels like nicking your pencil case."

It all made sense to Hermione once Gemma said what she said: Slytherins aren't evil, just opportunistic. So they utilize the wide fear of their House as a device to intimidate others, despite the reality being that they are relatively conventional. It was quite a clever tactic, Hermione thought with a nod.

"But we're not bad people. We're like our emblem, the snake: sleek, powerful, and frequently misunderstood," Gemma explained. "For instance, we Slytherins look after our own―which is more than you can say for Ravenclaw. Apart from being the biggest bunch of swots you ever met, Ravenclaws are famous for clambering over each other to get good marks, whereas we Slytherins are brothers. The corridors of Hogwarts can throw up surprises for the unwary, and you'll be glad you've got the Serpents on your side as you move around the school. As far as we're concerned, once you've become a snake, you're one of ours―one of the elite.

"A few more things you might need to know: our house ghost is the Bloody Baron. If you get on the right side of him he'll sometimes agree to frighten people for you. Just don't ask him how he got bloodstained; he doesn't like it," she darkly advised. "Also, our password to the common room changes every fortnight. Keep an eye on the noticeboard. Never bring anyone from another House into our common room or tell them our password."

Hermione instantly engraved that instruction into her brain.

Gemma clapped her hands together. "Well, I think that's all for now. I'm sure you'll like our dormitories. We sleep in ancient four-posters with green silk hangings, and bedspreads embroidered with silver thread. Medieval tapestries depicting the adventures of famous Slytherins cover the walls, and silver lanterns hang from the ceilings. You'll sleep well; it's very soothing, listening to the lake water lapping against the windows at night. Until then, feel free to explore the common room! Interact with your future Housemates and establish promising acquaintanceships!" She gave a comical salute before departing.

The group then disbanded, sauntering wondrously through the common room in various directions. What made Hermione apprehensive was the way several of the students eyed her as they walked away; she opted to explore the common room at a time she'd be the only one in it. She was about make an early retreat to the dormitories when a blatantly contemptible voice halted the process.

"So is it true?" Draco Malfoy snarled behind her. "Have we a _Mudblood_ in Slytherin?"


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione didn't know what _Mudblood_ meant; the term had never once made an appearance on any of the pages out of the countless books she had mentally consumed. Though, given the vehement tone in Malfoy's voice, she assumed its definition was quite unpleasant. "I beg your pardon?" she demanded.

Goyle and Crabbe were flanked at their leader's sides―the flirtatious look in Goyle's eyes had dissolved―and pointedly glowering at Hermione.

"Both of your parents are _Muggles,_ aren't they?" he maliciously interrogated. The repulsed emphasis he had put on "Muggles" couldn't have been anymore indicating of his prejudiced dogma.

"That's right," Hermione boldly responded, "I'm a Muggle-born."

Malfoy combusted. "A MUDBLOOD! WE HAVE A _MUDBLOOD_ IN SLYTHERIN!"

Hermione saw that other Slytherins were casting vicious glares behind Malfoy and his minions. The Purebloods glowered in their direction with disgust; many shook their heads in acknowledgement of an utter disgrace. Hermione instantly knew that this House would chew her up and spit her out―the walking stain of dirt disrupting their fraternity's harmony with her presence. This was an unpleasant memory she had a feeling she would vividly recount well into her adult years―given that she _lived_ that long. She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting back the tremors of fear rumbling within her. Her calmness was crumbling…

"Has not being washed too often driven that tattered, ugly, old hat _senile?_ How could it sort a Mudblood here? Salazar Slytherin must be rolling in his gra―!" The tip of a wand jabbing into the back of his neck ended the boy's irate rant.

"That will be enough, Malfoy." The raven-haired male prefect who had guided the first years to the common room was glaring holes through the platinum rear of Malfoy's head. Crabbe and Goyle, aware of the lesser authority that came with a prefect's position, withdrew quietly to merge into the audience.

"I think Professor Dumbledore would be interested to know of this situation." He nodded to Hermione. "Granger― _come."_

She timorously followed without question as the prefect seized Malfoy's arm in his constricting grip and yanked him towards the common room's entrance. She observed that several Slytherins were still glaring at her, but the majority―older students and a good amount of the first years―had shifted their glowers to Malfoy as he was dragged from the room, assaulting the prefect with vicious expletives. It became clear to Hermione that those Slytherins were disgusted by Malfoy's words and response to her blood status―they'd all been glaring at _him_. The scoffs and curling lips of the more decent demographic of the House reduced the evil-eyed supremacists to black specks, in comparison.

Before the entrance closed, Hermione heard a female Slytherin whisper, "Poor girl."

* * *

Malfoy, Hermione, and the prefect stood before Professor Dumbledore's desk in his office. "What exactly happened between Miss Granger and Mister Malfoy, Ian?" he patiently asked.

"Malfoy was calling Granger a Mudblood," the prefect (Ian) answered. "Made a huge scene about it in the common room, he did."

Behind his half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore's blue irises impaled Malfoy, ran through him like two swords crafted dangerously out of ice. Hermione silently gulped at the chilling change in Dumbledore's gentle disposition. A bead of sweat trailed down Malfoy's temple, his blood becoming frigid. Ian sneered wickedly at the delicious dismay clear-cut in Malfoy's expression.

"Is that true, Mister Malfoy?" Dumbledore icily questioned.

"I-I…w-well I…I just―"

Dumbledore looked to Hermione. "Miss Granger?"

"Yes, P-Professor," she sputtered, "he did."

"One month's detention, Mister Malfoy," Dumbledore said instantly.

Malfoy's jaw dropped. _"A whole month?!_ But it's my first offense!"

Dumbledore stood. "One that's penalty can very easily be expanded to _two_ months, might I add."

"But, _Professor―!"_

"Please escort Mister Malfoy back to the common room, Ian," Dumbledore instructed, graciously tuning out Malfoy's whining. "I wish to speak with Miss Granger privately, please."

After Ian hauled Malfoy from his office, Professor Dumbledore's eyes melted from their ice-cold state back to the warm puddles of benevolence they were initially. "My veracious apologies, my dear," he ruefully spoke. "I'd imagine this wouldn't be the ideal first day one would expect. We do not tolerate the discrimination of bloodlines, therefore I would ask of you to bring it to the attention of a prefect or staff member should something like this occur again."

Hermione nodded. "Professor…what exactly does _Mudblood_ mean? Can you tell me? I could tell it was really rude, of course…"

Hesitation flickered in Dumbledore's eyes, but he ultimately answered to her request. "Mudblood…is an extremely derogatory slur that regards the blood of a witch or wizard born to Muggle parents as unclean― _dirty blood,_ in summary."

She folded her arms. "I see…"

"Don't think much on it, dear. Mister Malfoy comes from a pure-blooded family that has endorsed supremacist convictions for generations. You would not be the first to be antagonized by a member of their branch."

"Blood-supremacy I was aware of before I arrived at Hogwarts," she morosely discerned, "but it perplexes me that I was placed in Slytherin. I don't particularly abhor the House, despite its reputation. But its founder was steadfastly against Muggle-borns being permitted tutelage here in Hogwarts. So how could I _possibly_ belong in his House?"

Dumbledore gently patted her shoulder. "Miss Granger, Salazar Slytherin may have _preferred_ to teach Purebloods, but, should _any_ student hold the potential for his House, they _will_ be sorted there, regardless of their blood status. What's more, your House does not define you; belonging to Slytherin isn't a betrayal to your heritage. One of Slytherin's earliest and greatest members helped to pave the way for Muggle-born rights, you know!"

"Yes," she acknowledged. _"Merlin."_

Dumbledore nodded. "As for Slytherin's reputation… _every_ House has its shadows, and foulness is not exclusive to but _one._ So do not let Mister Malfoy's stance cloud your judgement on Slytherin as a whole."

"I'm obviously in no position to do such," she dispiritedly conceded. "After all, I _am_ a Slytherin…"


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione's mind was heavy with a conglomeration of unpleasant emotions and foreboding presumptions as she descended the spiraling staircase that led up to Dumbledore's office. She found Gemma Farley waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs―and the cheerful splendor she had sported earlier was now absent.

"Hello, Hermione," she lukewarmly greeted.

"You've heard?" Hermione asked―though it was more of a certain observation than a question.

The prefect nodded. "Ian informed me and the other prefects. Our Head Boy ordered me to escort you back to the common room. I'm very sor―"

" _Please,"_ Hermione sighed, "don't apologize. I'd rather not become a pity-case on my first day."

Gemma chuckled lightly. This girl certainly had spunk, she thought. Gemma had always wished for Slytherin to become more integrated; when Slytherin wasn't being dubbed as the House of evil, it was being regarded as one based on supremacy. And walking epitomes of the House's negative stereotypes (Draco Malfoy for example) didn't lessen that demonizing image…

"Shall we proceed?" Gemma suggested with a smile. They walked in silence through the series of corridors and down several staircases. It was when they had descended into the dungeons that Gemma spoke.

"You aren't the first, y'know..."

"What?"

"You aren't the first Muggle-born to be put in Slytherin," she informed. "They're rare, but there's certainly been a fair amount. I got curious at one point and did some research: the first time a wizard of your status was made a member of Slytherin was 1001 AD, eleven years after Salazar Slytherin's departure, I believe."

Hermione grew curious. "What was their name?"

"Arnold Bowers," Gemma replied. "He was born to two Muggles who had participated in the hunting of magical beings. They disowned him once his magical abilities were discovered, leaving him homeless and bitter towards Muggles. He was very embracing of his life in the magical world. His Housemates were mostly courteous."

" _Mostly?"_

Gemma grinned. "Come on, Granger. Not all Slytherins were anti-Muggle-borns, but it should be no shock that many shared the beliefs of the _founder."_

"I suppose that's true," she conceded.

"Anyways," Gemma continued, "his became quite the feared name after he graduated; he fed his parents to a pack of werewolves at the age of twenty-two! He deliberately led them to a secluded location in the woods outside their home to be devoured under the full moon. Arnold had paid the werewolves off to do his dirty work, and afterwards established a loyal understanding with the lycan community. This bond stays strong between his descendants and smaller groups of werewolves to this very day."

Hermione shivered. "How horrid―yet somewhat endearing."

"No kidding. And, obviously, Muggle-borns continued to be sorted into Slytherin occasionally throughout Hogwarts's history. While it isn't a particularly frequent happening, that shouldn't suggest that the number of Muggle-borns Slytherin has had is _microscopic."_

Had Hermione's brain not already hosted a plethora of academic ambitions and silent fears, Gemma's information would most certainly have given her much to think about. After Gemma spoke the password before the common room's entrance, the girls walked through the nearly empty common room's sitting area. Hermione spotted Draco Malfoy sitting with four other first years, hissing venomously. The group consisted of Crabbe, Goyle, a black boy by the name of Blaise Zabini, and a girl named Pansy Parkinson. When she felt the pentad's rancorous glowers penetrating her sense of security she quickened the pace of her steps.

Gemma―having hurried alongside the intimidated first year―seized Hermione's wrist once they stood before the stairs leading up to the girls' dormitories. "I'm certain…" she panted. "…that Professor Dumbledore advised you to report any further bullying?"

"He did―and I will," she tersely responded. "Thank you very much, Gemma."

She hurried up the stairs without another word.


	7. Chapter 7

"Did you see the way she scuttled off?" snickered Blaise. _"How_ long is your detention sentence, Draco?"

"A _month,"_ he snarled with outrage. "A whole _bloody month!_ Can you believe that rubbish?"

Pansy clasped his hand. "Draco, what were you thinking? Starting a row with the Mudblood before half of Slytherin House?"

Goyle chuckled cheekily. "Well…at least we've got a _pretty_ Mudblood. Never seen fear that cute before."

" _Button it,_ Goyle," Malfoy barked, having to tune out Goyle's following guffaws. "I assumed the other Slytherins would side with _me._ But they all took pity on _Granger!"_

"That's 'cause a lot of Slytherins these days are blood traitors," Crabbe savagely traduced. "Sympathizing with the Mudbloods and what not!"

Blaise sneered, the glint of mischief in his eyes proposing a wicked reprisal. "I say we teach Granger a lesson―show her what happens when her kind tracks mud through _our_ House."

Sinister grins of accord spread through the group. Malfoy turned to Pansy, his silvery eyes exerting the flirtatious influence they'd established over her on the train ride to Hogwarts. "Pansy…?"

"What do you want me to do, Draco?" she loyally purred.

"Wait until after Granger and her dorm mates have fallen asleep," he instructed. "I know of a hex that can make a person's hair fall―"

The sharp clearing of her throat made the five Slytherins all turn in unison to Gemma's glower; she was scrutinizing them with malice.

"Gemma! I…We were just talking about making amends with Granger!"

Her glare remained unwavering _and_ unconvinced.

"Really!" Malfoy insisted. "I was going to write a heartfelt letter of apology to her and have Pansy leave it under her―!"

"If any harm has befallen Hermione come sunrise," Gemma spoke threateningly, "you and your little girlfriend will be out of Hogwarts faster than you can spell _pureblood."_

She stormed away from the group of first years. Her mind didn't linger on them for long. For she, the other prefects, and Head Boy and Girl were all going to coalesce and discuss how they were going to put the victimized Hermione at ease…

* * *

Hermione couldn't recall when she'd left bed and changed into her Slytherin uniform, or why she was emerging from the dormitories when she could practically _feel_ that nighttime hadn't faded. The common room radiated an aura of unfamiliarity that was, somehow, more eerie than it had been when she first entered it. A fire was crackling at the fireplace, and a lone figure was seated in the carved chair before it. An inexplicable pull drew her nearer to the person casually seated before the fireplace.

"Uh…Excuse me?" She didn't even know what to ask. She didn't know why she was approaching a complete stranger.

The person slowly stood and faced Hermione―and made her paler than a ghost. Gray, penetrating eyes smoldered into one with Hermione's gaze. The man was bald, had a white beard, and dressed in shadowy robes of the medieval era. His hands were intertwined, as though deep in contemplation.

" _S-Salazar…Slytherin…?!"_ she apprehensively yelped.

At that moment, the windows of the common room shattered simultaneously, and the water from the lake came rushing in. The fire was doused from existence, the furniture rocked and tumbled in the brisk torrents, and water flushed past Hermione's ankles. So heavily that she slipped backwards into the rush of the flood. The roaring sounds of rushing water was so loud that Hermione could hardly hear her own screams.

She desperately sloshed through the furious water and past the natant furniture; however the effort was futile. Her body began to rise. Soon Hermione was tugged down into the water that filled the common room―and fighting to hold her breath. The common room now submerged entirely in the emerald-illuminated flood, Hermione stared helplessly down at the late founder: Salazar's feet were still on the floor, and he seemed unfazed by the fact that he and Hermione were in water, like he was cemented to that very spot. Like he was one with the water…

His robes swayed and rolled like inky seaweed.

He stared up at the flailing Hermione, and when he spoke, his voice was as clear as it would've been on dry land and surrounded by oxygen.

"I'll be watching you, Muggle-born."


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione shot upright in her four-poster bed, her heart thudding furiously in her ribcage. Surprisingly, there were no beads of sweat trailing down her complexion. Was it that the fear induced by the watery, eerie nightmare had turned her pores frigid? She steadily exhaled in a frail attempt to settle her scrambled nerves.

"Bad dream, Granger?" three voices spoke in derisive unison. Her dorm mates were blond-haired, pure-blooded triplets―Lucie, Laurie, and Lizzie Lovett. They were first years like Hermione, and abnormally pretty for their age. Their looks were bound to adorn within time, Hermione could tell. They were identical, so they used distinguishing accessories to discern their given identities: Lucie kept her hair in a modest ponytail held by a silver barrette, Laurie wore a black headband while her hair fell straight and free down her back, and Lizzie's hair was kept in a thick fishtail braid. They kept their individual beds pushed together as one big four poster. The sisters were in their school uniforms, their arms propped under their chins as they sneered pointedly at Hermione from their shared bed.

"Try utterly insidious," she dryly answered. The night terror's aftershock faded as she rubbed soothing circles into her temples. A psychological apparition in her subconscious that was a metaphor for the recent stress and pressure she'd recently been bedeviled by, she concluded. There certainly was no other theory that could logically explain Salazar Slytherin himself having appeared in her head, sending her back to reality with such a resonating statement…

Wait…Was she taking to heart something that had been said to her in a _dream?_ Did she truly believe those words to have been spoken by the _actual_ founder of Slytherin?

Laurie crawled out of the trio of conjoined beds and stood. "That _must've_ been a right horror of a dream for you to have not noticed your _compensation_ by now."

Hermione blinked. "Compensation? What are you…?"

All three girls pointed to the foot of her bed. Hermione gasped at the sight of the colossal gift basket that had to have held at least _twenty_ different brands of various confectionaries behind its plastic wrapping. Overwhelmed, Hermione slid out of the covers and crawled over to the huge basket. The thing was so large that it nearly touched the canopy! There was a greeting card with silver letters taped to the basket's thick wicker that read: _Condolences from your Head Boy and Girl, and the Slytherin Prefects._

"Well…" Hermione murmured. She wasn't keen on being pitied, but the appreciation towards their endearing action she couldn't suppress.

"Remind me to get verbally assaulted at the next start of term," Lucie snidely quipped. With a look of great disdain, Lizzie flicked her sister behind her left ear. "Ow! _What?"_

"Better wash up and get changed into your uniform, Granger," Laurie instructed, ignoring Lucie's taunting input. "From what we hear, first-year Gryffin-dolts are the most loudmouthed at breakfast, so it would do us good to finish up our meals before too many of them arrive."

Hermione had no desire to get caught in the crosscurrent of the virulent rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor; coupled with her desire for endless information, overcoming the insecurities that came with being a Muggle-born Slytherin would be psychological drudgery.

"Understood," Hermione gratefully replied, opting to tend to her unbidden gift after classes were over. The sisters took their leave, save Lizzie, who had paused in the dorm's threshold.

"I don't suppose you'd be generous enough to provide a particular Housemate with a box of truffles?"

Hermione rolled her eyes as the blonde fluttered her eyelashes. She peeled back the plastic, grabbed the box of truffles, and tossed it to her. Lizzie squealed her appreciation and then took off. Considerate amends aside, it was time for Hermione to see what the first day of term had in store for her.

* * *

A hefty quarter of the start-of-term feast was still digesting in Hermione's tummy, thus she chose to skip breakfast and head to class. Now sporting the elegant green and black of her Slytherin robes, Hermione made her way down to the common room. Her eagerness towards her debut to Hogwarts education made it effortless for her to ignore the glances several older Slytherins stole at her as she hurried to the entrance. Waiting for her outside the entrance, she was surprised to see, was Marcus Flint's easygoing sneer.

"Mornin', Granger," he greeted.

"Oh, hello, Flint," Hermione said, clutching her books to her chest. "How are―?"

"You heading to breakfast?" he casually asked.

Hermione was perplexed. Marcus was an older student, but he certainly was no prefect. What made him so interested in where she went outside of the common room? Secondly, had he been _waiting_ out here for her? Why? For what perceivable reason?

"No, actually," she pendulously responded. "I was just going to go ahead to my first class: History of Magic."

"Ha! You're in my prayers. Professor Binns is perhaps the most boring teacher of the most boring class out of all the courses at Hogwarts," he jibed. "One might think his true goal is to bore his pupils to _death,_ him being a ghost and all!"

The aura that Marcus gave off…it filled Hermione with fervid uneasiness. The unpleasant emotions he'd caused her during their first meeting just last night were congregating within her once more.

"How's 'bout I walk you to his class?" Marcus offered.

"That's fine!" Hermione instantly replied. "I can find my way! Really! Besides…I'd hate for you to be late for your own class!"

Perhaps it was rude to decline a gesture of kindness from a Housemate, but this Marcus really unnerved her! She couldn't help it! It was hard to keep her expression unflinching in the stare of this intimidating boy. Besides, the stolidness in his eyes indicated he had accepted her courteous declination.

"I won't keep you, then," he responded. Hermione's eyes lit up with surprise when he gently grasped her chin. "Do keep your chin up, Granger, ain't many Slytherins who are Mudbloods," he seductively stated.

Apprehension prickled at the back of Hermione's neck. Without another word, she hurried out of Marcus's grasp down the dungeon's corridor. The sensation of his pernicious smile upon her person wouldn't fade until she had left the dungeons.


	9. Chapter 9

Marcus wasn't exaggerating when he claimed History of Magic to be the most boring class one would have to attend. Or perhaps it was just _Professor_ _Binns_ who was boring? Hermione couldn't remember a single class at her magic-less school that was as torturously tedious as Professor Binns's. Despite finding the class painstakingly uninteresting, Hermione paid no less attention than she would've in any other subject, expertly masking her boredom with the diligent writing of notes. It was a collective relief for the students when his class concluded. How could one ghost make a little over half an hour seem like half a _day?_

Her second class she hoped would go by smoothly, but obviously fate wouldn't let her have even that! Her next class was double potions. She bumped into Terence on her way back to the entrance dungeon.

"Heard about what went down between you and the Malfoy brat, last night," he stated. "You okay?"

"I am. I'm certainly to no degree traumatized," she calmly responded as they walked past the portrait of a previous headmistress. Her eyes fell upon the two of them, and her papery skin lit up.

"Oh! Slytherin students!" she chirped. "Remember to be extra _nasty_ to the Mudbloods!"

"Quiet your bloody saucebox, you dead crow!" Terence barked, thwacking her portrait's frame with his school bag, leaving her wailing in dismay as her rectangular residence swung perilously back and forth.

Hermione brushed her hair behind her ear. "That wasn't necessary, Terence," she chided, though the gratitude in her expression was easily detectable.

"That shrew back there has annoyed me since I was a first year, myself!" Terence pointed out. "Of course she's one of those fuddy-duddies that assumes a Slytherin is automatically a pureblood!"

Hermione's soft gasp echoed faintly through the drafty dungeons. "Terence, are you also a…?"

He smirked. "Not quite: I'm a half-blood. My mom is a pureblood, and my dad's Muggle-born. Induces all kinds of ire in me when someone badmouths them in my presence. The supremacists are just Slytherin's vocal minority, but small quantity doesn't lessen their foulness's quality. It would do you good to just treat 'em like they don't exist."

For Hermione, that action was both easily said and done. If she remained collected when faced by blatant prejudice, the slur those wretches threw around would eventually lose its meaning. And it was that hopeful thought that relaxed her. That and knowing that Terence's kindness towards her was rooted from his own father being a Muggle-born! The gray clouds were finally beginning to part.

"I'll keep that in mind. So which class are you off to?"

"Wizarding World Literature," he responded. "You'll love that class! It's taught by a ghost like History of Magic, but Professor Poe is one of the more well-liked teachers! Catch you in the common room, Granger."

"Bye, Terence." They parted ways, Terence making his way to Wizarding World Literature and Hermione to Potions class.

Potions was taught by the Head of Slytherin House, Severus Snape. Hermione knew little about him, but on her way from History of Magic she had overheard some students conversing bitterly about how he "favored" Slytherin. While the more high-minded part of her recognized favoritism as an unfair advantage, her opportunistic side wouldn't be able to not take advantage of it at some point. She supposed she would try to not be too excessive with the use of that (possible) asset.

Hushed whispers and swift glances swirled around Hermione the moment she stepped through the class's threshold. The unbidden attention made her clutch her books tightly to her chest. She took a seat in the front row to avoid hiding her face should the other students stole glances towards her.

"Right there. The one with the frizzy hair."

"You sure she's a Muggle-born? How could she be in Slytherin if so?"

"Muggle-borns are as capable of being sorted into Slytherin as any pureblood, dunce."

"You think she's evil?"

"Of course! _All_ Slytherins are evil! My brother tells me they are!"

"That can't be! She helped me when I lost my toad. How evil could she be?"

"May I sit next to you, Hermione?"

Hermione recognized the voice as Harry 's and instantly glowered at him. His green optics were perplexed by her instant hostility. "What's wrong, Hermione?"

His question was so naïve and vexing that it almost made Hermione want to take her wand out and hex him across the room. The innocent gleam in his eyes that she'd initially found cute ironically now incensed her. His look of fear at her being placed into Slytherin during the Sorting Ceremony was still painfully vivid. So much as to make Hermione apoplectic, and confounded as to why he was even speaking to her…

"There is a fair amount of Gryffindors in the room," she coldly stated. "Wouldn't you feel safer sitting next to one of _them?"_

Harry's mouth opened slightly in surprise. "Hermione…h-have I done something?"

Hermione impatiently sighed. "You're a wonder, Potter. I saw the way you looked at me during the Sorting Ceremony. The hat put me in Slytherin and you were _instantly_ frightened of me!"

"No! That's not it at all!" Harry imploringly insisted. "It's just that…Before I arrived at Hogwarts, someone told me that there was no witch or wizard who went bad that wasn't in Slytherin. So I was – "

"What? _Scared_ of me?" she interrogated, her hands becoming angry fists under the table.

"I was scared _for_ you," he eloquently revealed.

It was as though a bullet had shot through the air, leaving Hermione in a remorseful state of disquietude. "What?"

Harry fidgeted. "It was brief…but I saw the scared look in your eyes. You looked like you didn't want to be put there, yourself. Because of what I'd been told, I thought you were going to be tormented by a bunch of evil students. I felt bad for you…"

The sincerity twinkling within those emerald pools inflicted a painful jab of guilt to Hermione's gut. Just one night ago Hermione had been convinced that Harry had undergone a metaphorical double take on his view of her, and it made Hermione realize she'd jumped to conclusions. That was something she very _rarely_ did…Her sensitive feelings were finally starting to overtake her better judgement – she wasn't having that.

She sighed. "Sit down, Potter."

Harry's distraught expression evaporated as he sat next to Hermione.

"I'm sorry that I snapped at you," she apologized with a sad smile. "Very stressful events have transpired since the start-of-term feast – of which I'd rather not get into. Let's just start over."

Harry beamed and whimsically thrust his hand forward. "Harry Potter: Gryffindor duffer."

An uncontrollable giggle escaped her as she shook it. "Hermione Granger: Mudblood Slytherin."

"Mudblood…?"

Before he could ask what that was, a man dressed in black gracefully entered the room. His hair was greasy and slicked back, and he sported a black goatee.

Professor Snape.

All he needed was a huge pitchfork to complete his foreboding apparel, Hermione mentally quipped.

His eyes were black and hollow enough to make Professor Binns's seem vibrant with life by comparison. Hermione noticed how stiff Harry went at Snape's entrance and became concerned. Snape started the class with taking roll call and soon paused at Harry's name.

"Ah, yes," he said with a curled lip and voice like poisonous honey, "Potter. Our new _celebrity…"_


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** I've recently taken down the first installment of my Slytherin!Hermione saga that takes place in the second year. To all those who have read it, know that my reason for doing such is because I plan to re-write the story as a second installment in the saga. So my apologies to anyone who really enjoyed the story.

* * *

Hermione couldn't quite put her book-skimming finger on the reason for Professor Snape's instant, unadulterated disdain for Harry. Harry couldn't have done anything to him...could he? Despite the bitterness she had projected towards him just moments ago, the Potions Master's apparent dislike for Harry made Hermione somewhat uncomfortable, herself.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he lowly spoke, addressing the entire class. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses...I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Professor Snape certainly was passionate about his taught subject – albeit his condescending disposition, thought Hermione. But once Snape enlightened them all of his disconsolate distaste for the "dunderheads" he reluctantly took under his wing for all of the time consisting of his class's period, she wrote upon a mental sticky note to not come off as such and pinned it to the massive, systematized bulletin board that was her brain. She glanced sideways at Harry to see him exchanging uneasy looks with Weasley.

"Potter!" Snape suddenly called. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Hermione knew this, and her wrist twitched while she strenuously battled the urge to shoot her hand into the air.

"I don't know, sir," Harry meekly replied.

"Tut, tut – fame clearly isn't everything," Snape condescended.

Hermione could hear Crabbe, Goyle, and Malfoy chuckling in the background as Harry expressed his not knowing of where to find a bezoar when the teacher coldly quizzed him.

She could take no more of this. If Snape really did favor students from his own House, Hermione decided now would be an appropriate time to utilize the advantage. Her hand slowly went into the air. Once his gaze registered her as a Slytherin student, he calmly granted her permission to speak.

"You'll have to forgive Potter, Professor. Term has just begun and we're not even in the preliminaries of his tutelage."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Tutelage?"

Hermione could sense the questioning look in Harry's eyes, but didn't let it disrupt her ruse's smooth sailing. "Yes. He doesn't know much about Potions, but he confided in me that the subject holds his interest above all others. He doesn't know much about Slytherin other than their historical talents in the field of potion-making – which he greatly admires! So much that he approached me, despite the rivalry between our Houses, to ask of me to tutor him in the field. He was most eager to come to _your_ class, you should know!"

At her (false) statement Snape directed his scrutinizing gaze back to Harry. "Is that true, Mister Potter?"

"I...Of course, sir," he weakly replied, an equally weak smile forming on his face that could've easily come off as embarrassment. Harry held the same shy, timid tone when taking part in a fib as he did when honestly admitting his ignorance of anything to do with Potions. Thus, Snape wouldn't have been able to tell if Harry were lying or not, Hermione calculated.

The Potions Master's expression was unreadable for a few seconds. "Well...just see to it that your interest in this subject doesn't diminish, Potter."

Mercifully, Snape's odious attention left Harry. Harry looked at Hermione and whispered, "Thanks."

She grinned cheekily in response.

Even Ron couldn't mince his words. "Nice save, Granger," he whispered past Harry.

"Thank you, Weasley," she quietly replied. While she didn't particularly land on the red-haired boy's radar for cordial company, it gave her a rewarded sensation to have earned a compliment from him.

Class commenced. Midway through brewing, Hermione asked to be excused to the girls' lavatory, leaving Harry and Ron to weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs.

"Hermione's kind of a neat girl, huh?" Harry said to Ron.

The corner of Ron's mouth twitched. "She's still a know-it-all...but I guess she's sort of alright – for a _Slytherin."_

Harry frowned. "I know Slytherin's reputation isn't very appealing...but do you really think they're _all_ evil?"

Ron sighed. "Let's just say I'm closely acquainted with two Slytherins who've been the bane of my existence long before I arrived here at Hogwarts."

Harry blinked. "Really? Who?"

The only response Ron gave was the stiff tightening of his lower jaw.


	11. Chapter 11

Hermione emerged from a cubicle and made her way to a sink to wash her hands. She hoped that Harry was faring well with Weasley in Snape's classroom; the ingredients and concoction for the potion they were working on wasn't all that complicated, she recalled. But then again…what was basic to her usually was strenuous to others. Her inflated intellect had a tendency to blind her to the fact that not everyone was as studious and well-informed as she was. She exited the lavatory, her gait quick, as she wanted to get back to Potions before Harry or Weasley caused their potion's brewing any costly blunders.

It was when she was midway down the corridor that she sensed two pairs of feet stalking in her wake. An amused, masculine giggle floated towards her from behind, making her white-knuckled as she quickened her pace. It soon became evident that these two students were tailing her, their presence still being detectable by Hermione as she walked through the particular route to the dungeons verifying that they were following her. Hermione swiftly withdrew her wand, whipping around to irately address her quiet pursuers.

They were two red-haired twins wearing Slytherin robes and duplicate sneers promising of mischief. "Would you look at that, Fred? We've ruffled the little Muggle-born's feathers before so much as exchanging _words_ with her," one of them mockingly declared.

"That has to be a new record indeed, George," replied the other twin. The exact apprehension Hermione had felt in Marcus's company was doubled in the presence of the mysterious twins. She felt like she was in that American horror film _The Shining,_ staring down the hall at two creepy twins eerily calling for her to come "play" with them.

"I don't know either of you," Hermione growled, "but if you're hoping for a game of _skin the Mudblood_ I promise I will - !"

"Ah, so you really _are_ a Muggle-born," George said, seemingly intrigued.

Hermione kept her wand at the ready. "What do you both want? Who are you?"

"Fred and George Weasley," they responded in velvety unison, "Twin Terrors of Slytherin House! Pleased to make your acquaintance!"

 _Weasley?_

Hermione slowly lowered her wand. "Are...you both related to _Ron?"_

"Oh, you know our little badger kid-brother!" Fred said. "How many times has he tripped over his own feet and fallen on his face?"

While the Weasley Slytherins laughed, Hermione chastised herself for having not noticed the obvious: red hair and freckles...of course they were Ron's kin.

But still...

"What is it that you both want with me?" she asked more calmly than she had earlier.

"Well, certainly not to force you into a broom closet, or anything," George answered. "So you can put your wand away. We just had to see for ourselves if the news was true. If there really was a Muggle-born in Slytherin this year."

This was becoming quite annoying and ridiculous now. She knew it was a rare happening, but was a Muggle-born being put in Slytherin really _that much_ of a huge deal? In the mere two days she'd been at Hogwarts, she'd felt more like a sideshow attraction than an equal student.

"Well, here you both are, the news has been confirmed," she sourly retorted, tucking her wand back into her sleeve. "Now if you'll both excuse me..."

"Wait a second!" called George. "Don't be so hasty, Granger! We have a proposition for you!"

Proposition? Fred and George may have been fellow Slytherins, but she hadn't been aware of their existence before just now. What business could they have possibly had to discuss with her?

With uncertainty building in her chest, she stood before the brothers. "What are you saying...?" she demanded.

In response, the boys grinned widely at her.


	12. Chapter 12

Hermione returned to Snape's class, confident that her face wasn't portraying any amount of unease. How Fred and George convinced her to accept their deal – albeit its ludicrous conditions – she still couldn't fully comprehend. The twin Slytherins certainly were nothing like Ron: the nervous-eyed runt who stumbled over his own words if not his shoelaces. Both were two smooth-talking halves of a raring businessman, and if it weren't for the red hair Hermione would have been highly skeptical of the chance of them being related to Ron.

"Ah, welcome back, Hermione," Harry said as she joined him and Ron back at the table. "You won't believe what happened while you were gone: Neville and Seamus's potion went haywire, burning a hole through some of the other students' shoes. Neville had to be taken to the hospital wing, he'd been left with at least a _dozen_ boils!"

"Goodness," she hissed. "Poor thing. Well…how is the potion coming along, Weasley?"

Ron's orange eyebrows were furrowed in frustration as he did his best to decipher the concoction's ingredients from the basic edition of the potions book. "Um…let's see: add a petrified batwing to the potion once it is at a low simmer."

At that, Hermione observed the beaker over the burner. "The heat of the flame is a tad too high. It's practically _boiling_. If it isn't simmering at a leveled temperature the batwing's contents will disintegrate before its effect can dilute the mixture."

Sweet, naïve Harry couldn't _hope_ to understand Hermione's convoluted input, so he just nodded in agreement, taking her word for it. Ron sent daggers of irritation from his eyes to the back of Hermione's head, irked once more by the Slytherin girl's excess intellect.

Hermione focused on the assignment, able to sense Ron's returning disdain, but smoothly ignoring it.

Potions concluded, and the students all filed out of Snape's classroom. Ron cordially bid a warm farewell to Harry before setting off to his next class – to Hermione he said nothing.

"I get the feeling Weasley doesn't like me very well," Hermione said, watching Ron walk off.

"Be grateful it's a student and not a _teacher_ you aren't liked by," Harry comfortingly jeered, though he did not grin.

Hermione wanted to ask exactly why Professor Snape didn't like Harry, but that was most likely a question he himself knew not the answer to. Instead, she asked what class he was heading to next.

"Wizarding World Literature," he replied. "I believe it's in a classroom deeper in the dungeons."

 _The class Terence mentioned to me,_ she recalled. Only then did she remember that she herself had the very same class. "That's my next class, too! A friend – well, _potential_ friend – told me that it was very well liked. Also that the teacher's name was Professor Poe."

"Maybe it will be a pleasant enough class to take our minds off of drearier thoughts," he said hopefully. Hermione silently shared the same hope as they walked through the caliginous corridors of the dungeons.

"So what was your life like before you arrived at Hogwarts?" Hermione asked, wanting to get to know the Boy Who Lived better through well-balanced conversation. Obviously there had to be more to him than just his glamorous title. "As I've said before: my parents aren't magic. My parents are both dentists who work in Muggle communities. They're still adjusting to the knowledge of my being a witch, along with the unforeseen introduction to the world of magic itself!"

"I guess you could say I share the same emotions as your parents," Harry said weakly. "My family never once brought up my parents being magical. I think they wanted to smother any chance of me becoming a wizard by severing any ties to magical world before they could ever be made."

Hermione was overtaken by outraged astonishment. "Why on earth would they do that?"

Harry sighed. "My aunt and her family hated anything magical. She was my mother's sister, but while everyone saw her as a blessing my aunt only saw her as a freak."

Harry then hoped Hermione wouldn't ask about his home life and ultimately have to tell her about their cruel treatment and how they made him sleep in a spider-infested cupboard under the stairs.

"How awful," Hermione gasped.

Mercifully, they had reached the destination that was Professor Poe's classroom. "Yes…but it's class time! Sad talk later!"

Ever observant, Hermione could tell that Harry's terse ending of the conversation was a countermeasure to keep from venturing into more sensitive territory of his life outside of Hogwarts, and she chose to respect his privacy by not pressing.

Both she and Harry were completely awestruck as they took in the cemetery-themed architecture of Wizarding World Literature's classroom. The room had no windows, blue flames brightly flickering in Victorian-styled lamps lining the stone walls serving as the sole source of light. The floor of the classroom was a bleak design of cobblestones, and, in place of a door, a tall, majestic iron gate bound in thick chains was positioned at the classroom's threshold. Above the gate/entrance was a marble platform, ominously perched upon it an inimical sculpture of a raven that would emit a despairing caw from its stony beak, signaling either the commencing or end of class.

At the front of the drearily elegant classroom before a trio of large―and chillingly ill-fated―portraits hung on the wall, provided a good outlook of the young occupants of the room. Their ornate, gothic frames were the only visible extents of their congruity. The center portrait was of a hazy-eyed, alabaster woman in a flowing lavender garment standing outside a sepulcher, her ghostlike beauty entrancing as she stood before the shore, clouds swirling hopelessly gray above her, and the auburn ringlets of her hair swaying against her face in an unheard breeze. The square, black plaque below the portrait identified the outlandish belle in bold, white letters as ANNABEL LEE.

The portrait neighboring her was of a meager old man in bed, decrepit in body, but his severely unnerving vulture's eye, one that many students had claimed to have felt conflagrant upon their persons even after they'd left Professor Poe's classroom, glowered from the portrait. The other half of his face shrouded in shadow, the old man's eye seemed to rotate to every student, malign and scrutinizing them all with a gaze that would take residence in their most lurid dreams for a good week, or so. The plaque underneath it read THE OLD MAN OF TELL-TALE HEART.

The third portrait was of a tombstone decorated with a pile of discordantly vibrant lilies, the crescent moon beaming through the nighttime sky upon it. The name engraved upon the tombstone read Lenore, no perceivable surname present. You'd have to be studying the portrait quite meticulously to notice, but every few minutes, a flash of white would transform the portrait's scenery. The sky would be dyed a seductive scarlet, the silhouette of a raven with glowing white eyes perched atop the tombstone visible, and the white lilies withered and black atop the grave's soil. The tombstone would become riddled with unsightly cracks and overgrown with thorny brambles, dead leaves blowing in its vicinity. _Lenore_ would be replaced by _NEVERMORE_. The portrait's plaque read THE RAVEN.

As Terence had mentioned, the class was taught by another ghost. And there he was, writing upon a parchment with black-feather quill at his desk before the aligned tables of his classroom. His eyes – dark and mournful as two bottomless graves – looked up upon his sensing the arrival of the first two students.

His voice was dry with ennui as he spoke, "Welcome, children, you're both the firsts. I pray you both possess minds seeking a path leading opposite the desolate path to illiteracy."

Hermione felt as though she could've fainted. Wizarding World Literature was taught by the ghost of the American poet _Edgar Allan Poe?!_


	13. Chapter 13

Edgar Poe was an American Muggle-born orphaned at the age of one. His father abandoned the family in 1810, and his mother died the following year. He was taken in as a child by John Allan, a Scottish merchant of Richmond, Virginia. While never formally adopted, John and his family became something of foster family to the child, even giving him the name "Edgar Allan Poe".

John alternately spoiled and disciplined Edgar, providing a sufficing home for him. Edgar's magical potential was brought to notice when he and his family sailed to Britain in 1815. Poe had been attending grammar school in Irvine, Scotland when he had accidentally made a ruffian who often bullied him bloat up like a balloon and float away into the sky above the courtyard. The incident had left many students traumatized, and adults and police officials skeptical when the children who had witnessed everything recounted what they saw. Though horrified by what he'd (unwittingly) done, Edgar never spoke of the incident even after he rejoined his family in London in 1816.

He attended a boarding school in Chelsea until 1817, and subsequently Reverend John Bransby's Manor House School at Stoke Newington. The Allans were preparing to move back to Virginia in 1820 when Edgar's letter of invitation to Hogwarts arrived at their residence, shocking them all – Edgar included. The family was convinced that it wasn't a joke when a Hogwarts representative showed up to their residence, as was protocol with getting Muggle-born students prepared for their first term at the school. While still in awe at the discovery of Edgar's magical abilities and the wizarding world, the Allans ultimately capitulated to the representative's insisting that he attended Hogwarts and hone his abilities.

The very same year, Edgar attended Hogwarts and was sorted into Ravenclaw, his family ultimately staying in London. He would become one of the most influential figures to have attended Hogwarts following his graduation.

At twenty-two he returned to Hogwarts as the professor for Muggle studies, later becoming the head of his former House. He privately wrote poems and short stories in his free time – stories that would wind up in circulation of and celebrated in both magical and non-magical communities. After meeting his end at the hands of an undisclosed illness at forty, Wizarding World Literature was added to the school's curriculum in his honor, his ghost remaining at Hogwarts to personally teach the subject.

Same as the previous class, the subject's period was split between the Slytherins and Gryffindors. Thankfully Ron was excluded from this particular period. But what neutralized that sense of relief was the presence of Goyle and Pansy, both seated three desks down from where she and Harry were. Professor Poe started the first day of his class with an introductory lecture, floating at the front of the class before the trio of macabre portraits.

"While mine is a disposition to make the bones beneath a cemetery appear lively," he flaccidly said, "the subject of Wizarding World Literature may be quite absorbing should you give it the chance. I've taught many famous authors from several generations is this very classroom: Rita Skeeter, Leah Baneswood, and Xavier Holloway to name a few. But one need not a ardent desire for literature to appreciate the tantalizing beauty of words upon parchment; creativity you can harness to manufacture into fictional worlds of your own crafting. The quill of a feather conjoined with moist blackness of ink can serve as the stepping stones to immortalizing your life's chronicles.

"Throughout this course we will visit various sources of literature – originating from both magical and non-magical communities. After a certain time you will all be instructed to create your own reports and stories based upon the genres we will explore. By the end of term, I am confident your impressionable minds will be broadened to the enchanting world of books – even to a modicum."

Professor Poe's lecture was like an enticing siren. Before coming to Hogwarts, Hermione had indulged in most of his work: _The Raven, The Pit and the Pendulum, The Tell-Tale Heart, The Fall of the House of Usher, The Premature Burial._

She was disappointed – and startled beyond belief with the rest of the class – when the ear-splitting caw rushed through the air. She didn't want the class to end with just a lecture. Not without so much as one small assignment to prepare for. But, once she recovered from being star struck, she would be patient until the following day.

"He seemed really nice," Harry said.

"He is one of the most famous authors to have lived!" Hermione joyfully adulated. "I'm so eager to learn from him – tomorrow can't come soon enough."

The children would part ways once they'd left the dungeons. "I know bringing this up so suddenly may sound strange…but I really don't think Ron dislikes you as much as you may think. He told me earlier in Potions that he has two brothers in Slytherin."

"Fred and George," she knowingly responded.

"Oh, you've met them?" Harry said with light surprise.

"Quite recently, yes. They're both quite…charming…"

"I met them on the way to Hogwarts, but never asked which House they belonged to," Harry stated. "Ron told me that nearly everyone in his family had been in Gryffindor, and it was a huge surprise for their parents to learn they had been put in Slytherin."

As Harry said this, Hermione's memory drifted back to the deal she'd established with the crafty twins…


	14. Chapter 14

_To their grins, Hermione intrepidly replied, "And what if I were to say that I have no interest in hearing whatever proposition you have in mind?"_

 _"It's common courtesy to listen to a proposal before making solid decisions, Granger," Fred mockingly chastised. "You may live among Muggles, but we're certain that even they have a fair understanding of manners."_

 _At that condescending comment, Hermione etched her nastiest sneer into her features. "Why, yes. We Muggle-world denizens bear a sterling sense of courtesy. Please…don't let a Neanderthal like me cloud your judgment on us."_

 _Instead of appearing shocked by her vehement response, the brothers both looked as though they could've burst out laughing. This only incensed Hermione further. The brothers hastily regained their foreboding composure when she wheeled around and prepared to storm off down the corridor._

 _"Our brother tells us that you know more than a thing or two about the wizarding world despite being new to it," George said. "Point in fact…he even referred to you as an 'insufferable know-it-all' in that very context."_

 _"You're doing a marvelous job of making me want to stay and hear you out, I must say," she sardonically said as she folded her arms._

 _"Okay, okay. We happen to have a particular interest in having an insufferable know-it-all to consult," George replied. "Slytherins have an inherent eye for potential assets, and a first year that knows more things than most can be promising for the goals we have in mind."_

 _"What exactly is it you both want with me?"_

 _Fred's eyes became pondering for a silent second. "Trick us."_

 _"What…?"_

 _"Trick us using that 'insufferable' knowledge of yours. Ask us any question you want. If we answer wrong, you can go about your merry business. If we answer correctly, you have to hear out our offer later in the common room."_

 _George's expression was compliant with his brother's conditions._

 _These twins certainly were bold to lay down the rules of a game that would determine whether or not she would aid whatever ambitions they had under their belts! But…if it made her leave faster…_

 _"Alright then…What is the original title for a witch or wizard born to Muggle parents?"_

 _The brothers knew there had to be some kind of sleight hidden within Hermione's simple question; they had just addressed her as the very title associated with those of her blood but moments ago. The brothers just assumed that the girl was probably trying to get them to say Mudblood – but they were neither idiots nor supremacists._

 _"Muggle-born," they answered simultaneously._

 _Hermione grinned arrogantly. "Wrong."_

 _The brothers stared at her – and she quietly admired their perplexed expressions the same way an artist admires her most stunning painting._

 _"What are you on about?" George demanded. "That's exactly what they're called!"_

 _The little girl giggled. The tables were obviously turned now: the twins being confused and perturbed while Hermione savored their dismay._

 _"You didn't listen closely enough to my question did you? I asked you to tell me the_ original _title for a witch or wizard born to Muggle parents: Magbobs. The seventeenth-century term originally given to those of no magical heritage. The term was a play on how magical abilities just seemed to 'bob' out of nowhere in Muggle communities. Muggle-born wasn't conceived or acknowledged as a title until decades later. It pays to pick up a book, dear twins."_

 _Their jaws dropped at having actually been tricked by her. Hermione could tell from their perspicuous shock that they had planned to be successful in their little game and things had not gone according to plan._

 _Hermione turned her back on the twins. "But if you were willing to seek me out…you must have something quite requiring of my help. So you have my curiosity. After classes conclude today, find me in the common room. I'll be waiting for you both. Oh…and if you're critical of my answer…the information is in the book_ Ancient Wizarding Society. _I believe there are copies of it in the library."_

 _She left the upperclassmen stunned in her wake. She would have just abided the terms of their game and left them and their unheard proposal forgotten, but she felt she now owed the twins something. What could an eleven-year-old girl have owed two twins she'd known for but a moment out of her entire life? By being the victims of her craftiness, they'd neutralized a great deal of her uncertainty at being in their House._

 _As Hermione walked back to Snape's class, she actually felt more like a Slytherin._


	15. Chapter 15

The week seemed to pass by like a casual rush of wind – for Hermione at least. It was a lovely convenience that Harry and Hermione had several classes together. Harry had run into her on the way back from Rubeus Hagrid's hut, the pockets of his trousers filled with rock cakes that Hermione could only assume had been given to him by this Hagrid person. Harry was kind enough – nearly insistent – to share the unappetizing treats with Hermione; she wondered if he was just trying to get rid of the load...

But the ghastly treats weren't the weirdest features of their meeting, no. It was the two red-haired twins flanked loyally at her sides. Ron, Harry, Hermione and the Weasley twins stood in the quiet courtyard.

"Congrats on making it into Gryffindor, Ronnie," George said with a taunting grin. "It's so fitting that you'd be placed in the second-best House."

Hermione nudged her fellow Slytherin with her elbow. "Play nice, George."

"It wouldn't be a very convincing performance, trust me," Ron grumbled, folding his arms. Hermione tuned out Fred and George's mocking laughter before addressing Harry again.

"Just want to give you a heads-up, Harry: tomorrow is when Flying lessons start," Hermione stated. "Sadly that's a subject that can't be memorized from a book..."

The girl recalled the distaste she held for P.E. back at her Muggle school, and the bizarre incident when she had unintentionally caused all of the dodgeballs to deflate all at once. Perhaps handling an airborne broomstick would be different? It's not like Muggles haven't built or operated their _own_ flying mechanisms.

"We have that with the Slytherins, too?" Harry groaned. "Not that I hate being in the presence of Slytherins, Hermione! It's just…I'm probably going to end up making a fool of myself before that Malfoy terror…"

"Of _course_ you'll probably make a fool of yourself!" Hermione laughed. "Most of us probably will! We're novices, Harry – not professionals. Consider humiliating blunders as growing pains you have to learn from."

She always knew just what say, Harry thought with silent gratitude. The past week couldn't have been any more confirming of that notion; Hermione had managed to talk Harry out of trouble whenever Snape had tried to rake him over the coals. Sadly this didn't prevent the Potions Master from deducting points from Gryffindor at the expense of the other members – Ron included. It caused Hermione a subsequent twinge of guilt whenever she won excessive points to Slytherin from Snape for an impeccably brewed concoction. Harry expressed no bitterness, even congratulated her occasionally.

Ron – predictably – wasn't as supporting…

Over the gradual days the students had spent in each other's presence, Hermione had begun to reciprocate Ron's dislike. His disdain towards her academic strength was something of a bittersweet reminder of how her Muggle classmates resented her for being so erudite and the source of many of the teachers' adulation. Whenever Fred or George made a mean-spirited jibe towards their younger brother back in their common room, Hermione, without remorse, would contribute her own callous giggle. Without a doubt, Hermione and Ron would never come in contact with each other if it weren't for their mutual friendship with Harry serving as their sole bridge.

"Thanks for reassuring me, Hermione," Harry said.

"Ha! If you think Flying is going to be a right fright, wait until you're a third year and taking Care of Magical Creatures," Fred said, causing Harry's skinny anatomy to stumble slightly via a playful clap upon his back. "Did you know it's taught by a werewolf?"

"A… _werewolf?"_ Harry gasped, adjusting his glasses back over his apprehensive eyes. Harry's only knowledge of werewolves was sourced from late-night horror movies and stories Dudley would tell him essentially to frighten him.

"Is it really?" Hermione chirped. "That sounds like it would be so fascinating! I've read about them in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them!"_

Ron folded his arms and looked away. "What _haven't_ you read about?" he grumbled lowly.

Hermione caught this, but was unable to give any care over her fervent fascination.

"Ever since the Ministry passed that decree that banned discrimination based upon lycanthropy, it's been easier for werewolves to jobs," George informed with a smirk. "Lots of students find it fitting for Care of Magical Creatures to be _taught_ by one! Settle down, Granger, the subject is a third-year elective. You've still got some time before you can take the class."

 _Maybe I have to wait before I can take the class,_ she thought mischievously, _but who says I have to wait to meet the teacher?_

"Would either of you happen to know where this teacher is at the moment?" Hermione asked Fred and George, who both detected the glint in the young Slytherin's eye. Along with his name, they revealed that he would be coming from the edge of the Forbidden Forest and be making his way through the very courtyard they were standing in.

The werewolf would be coming to them, Hermione gleefully realized.

"Did you hear that, Harry? A werewolf teacher! I have so many questions to ask: What monthly cycles are like for him! How his senses are affected during his time as a wolf!"

Harry nervously fidgeted. "Yeah…Can't wait to ask him," he replied, the enthusiasm in his voice forced.

 _"Monstrous_ curiosity you have there, Granger," George said as he patted the top of her head. "That's one of the things Fred and I like about you!"

At Hermione's coy chuckle, an unexplained stream of jealousy seeped into Ron's chest, spreading like green poison. Fred and George certainly were never his favorite siblings, yet Hermione earning jovial smiles from them caused his blood to simmer. But the presence of the awaited werewolf snagged the attention of the five students.

"My, my, students in the courtyard after class hours instead of their common rooms…how quaint."

When he was sure none of the others would notice, Harry took two fearful steps behind Hermione, trembling silently behind her. Fred and George sneered as their brother stood petrified on the spot. Hermione – excitement tinged with a modicum of fear – was the only first year to step forward, beaming her anticipation.

"Hello! I'm Hermione Granger!" She confidently thrust her hand towards him. "Professor Greyback, am I correct?"

Hermione's delicate hand was gingerly enveloped in Fenrir Greyback's strong grasp, and he was careful as to not scrape her skin with his wolfish nails.

"Correct you are, little lamb," he purred past his beastly canines. "I call all first years that…don't take offense."


	16. Chapter 16

Instead of returning to their common rooms, Hermione, Harry, Fred, George, and Ron were all seated on the grass before Professor Greyback on the edge of the Forbidden Forest – which was actually quite picturesque during twilight, once you ignored all of the lurid rumors that the students threw around amongst each other regarding its population.

It was a light surprise for Fenrir that there were students that actually were curious for his company after school hours, especially when three of them weren't even his students yet. Fenrir had never harmed any students in the four years he had taught at Hogwarts, but he wasn't oblivious to the fact that they found him quite frightening. It was no surprise to him that many of the students chose to avoid him if possible. Strangely, instead of feeling hurt or isolated, it was quite exhilarating for Fenrir to be able to teach and lead a somewhat conventional living and still be able to frighten others without consequence; he was grateful for whatever acceptance he was given, but he still lapped up fear like honey whenever or wherever it presented itself.

It was no secret that even some members of the staff were somewhat uneasy around Fenrir, namely Argus Filch, the school's caretaker. A rather heated incident had transpired between the two of them in Fenrir's second term of teaching that concluded in Dumbledore having to intervene after Fenrir threatened to "roast that wretched cat of his on a spit over a roaring fire and serve her with an apple stuffed in her mouth at the end-of-term feast."

The knowledge of that row was what made him Fred and George's favorite teacher.

"Werewolves have been both the fear and fascination of wizardkind for as long as they have existed," Fenrir smoothly said, seated upon the grass, too. "Our legend and likeness even managed to seep into Muggle folklore – fairy tales, as you may know them. The Lycanthropic character is often adapted and portrayed as an antagonistic archetype that I'm rather fond of: The Big Bad Wolf."

Hermione was perhaps the only first year that would be rushing to dip her quill into a bottle of ink and furiously scribble upon parchment after classes were over. Ron and Harry had separate reasons for staying: Ron so he wouldn't appear cowardly before his Slytherin brothers, and Harry because he wanted to share part of his Slytherin friend's intrigue (seated safely behind her).

"When the full moon casts its eerie spotlight from the night sky and lulls our human selves to sleep, we haven't the choice whether or not to transform," he continued. "Whoever we are before and after the change goes dormant, and we become savage enough to kill our loved ones should they be in our vicinity."

Harry made sure that it was the trembling hand that was unseen that touched Hermione's shoulder; the Slytherin girl was too engrossed in her scribbling of notes to sense his fearful touch.

"Despite that, we are able to recall all that we experienced during our lupine periods upon reverting to our human selves."

"Wow…" spoke the trembling Harry. "That's quite –"

"What is the transformation process like? Is it painful?" Hermione asked.

The twins sniggered as Harry just shrugged and kept quiet, yielding to Hermione's redoubtable will to learn.

"Oh, _extremely_ painful if not properly treated. Days in the cycle closest to the full moon can have ill effects on a werewolf's mood and health – if not for the intervention of Wolfsbane Potion."

Hermione ceased her furious writing. "Wolfsbane Potion, Professor?"

"It is a concoction that relieves the pain of the transformation process and allows us to retain our human minds while in our beastly state, albeit having a repulsive taste. The ingredients leave quite the hole in the wallet, and the preparation is quite complex. Potioneers are usually to be hired, but while I'm at Hogwarts, Dumbledore instructs Snape to brew my monthly vial for me."

The twins were able to detect a grateful gleam in Fenrir's eye. "We always knew you were fond of Dumbledore for a particular reason, Professor," George said.

"Eh, the old man grows on you sooner or later," he said shrugging.

Harry wondered if the werewolf had suffered many years of no kindness from society; he certainly would've been able to relate. Perhaps Harry would have the chance to get to know him better as the term progressed – once he overcame the swallowing fear induced from his beastly features.

"Because of the wholesale discrimination directed towards werewolves, many of us were left in poverty, if not having to settle with jobs far below our qualifications," he continued. "Werewolves were left resentful of the wizarding government. There have even been cases of wizards and witches throughout history wishing for death when turned into lycans. Many of us felt that we had no hope of achieving work and even considered joining Voldemort."

Ron's body jumped. A sharp gasp escaped Hermione as her quill fell from her hand. Even Fred and George's normally roguish expressions paled slightly. Harry was the only one unaffected by the speaking of the name, and sent puzzled glances to each of his classmates.

"Oops…I'm not supposed to speak his name, am I?" Fenrir chuckled with no genuine remorse. He was about to continue, but his monstrous optics took notice of orange seeping through the sky and the sinking half-sun. "Oh, you lot best be getting back to your common rooms now."

Hermione's fleeting dismay evaporated. "Must we? I have far more questions, Professor!"

Behind her, Ron was hurriedly whispering to Harry and tugging his arm, eager to abide to Professor Greyback's suggestion.

Fenrir stood and patted the top of her head. "Another time, little lamb. I promise."

The twins stood. "Yeah, Granger. Besides…we have _other_ matters to discuss," spoke Fred ominously.


	17. Chapter 17

"And you're both certain that no one ever sets foot in here?" Hermione firmly asked as she intensely and silently observed the concoction being stirred in a simmering cauldron with a silver spoon borrowed - more likely _stolen_ \- from the Hogwarts kitchen by Fred. "Not too much sulfur extract, George."

"Gotcha," replied George. He corked the glass vial and placed it back into his satchel.

"Believe us, Granger, anyone who's been at Hogwarts for at least two years wouldn't give a second's thought to setting foot in this particular lavatory," Fred confidently said, "and we have Moaning Myrtle to thank for that!"

"The sobbing wraith over there in that cubicle, I presume?" Hermione rhetorically responded as her gaze drifted to the weeping stall that contained the bespectacled ghost.

"Yes, Myrtle's just the sobbing wraith of Hogwarts!" she wailed. "Dead, dead, _dead_ is all she is! Pay no heed to the fact that she's still human!"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

The three Slytherins were in the unutilized girls' lavatory on the second floor of the school; it served as a makeshift manufactory for the twins' prank paraphernalia. On their way to the lavatory, the twins told Hermione that, while they unctuously considered themselves clever, they felt that having a bright third party greatly familiar with the properties of many ingredients chaperoning the production of their items would be convinient.

The Ravenclaws would never think of "wasting their intellect on such childish things as the production of joke novelties"; the Hufflepuffs were horrible at keeping secrets, and the brothers would swim through raw sewage before they asked a favor of anyone from Gryffindor.

"That and we made a miscalculation in the measurement of a particular ingredient that resulted in pink bubbles spouting from our ears for two weeks straight, last year," George had revealed before they arrived.

"Dare I ask how these ingredients ended up in the possession of you both?" she had suspiciously questioned. But when mischief gambolled about in their eyes, Hermione sharply said, "Nevermind! The less I know, the better."

A little over an hour later the trio would sit upon the cold floor in the lavatory, working in tense silence; though students rarely set foot in Moaning Myrtle's lavatory, there was always the slim chance that a curious sound would summon an unbidden student or staff member - worst case of all, Filch and Mrs. Norris. Thus, they kept their ears open.

Hermione watched Fred raise the spoon from the cauldron, attached to it a stretching, taffy-like pink substance. "Ah, it's cooling just as you said it would, Granger! We could kiss you!"

"Do you want your lips hexed from your faces?" she jeered. "You both may want to consider finding a test subject for these...what do you call them again?"

There was a note of great pride in their voices when they simultaneously answered "Puking Pastilles!"

"Yes, yes. As I said, a test subject would be helpful in recording how fast the vomiting starts and how long it lasts, if you want to possibly moderate the ingredients to prolong the lifespan of the effect."

The boys nodded. "Since the ingredients combined make up both the product and its antidote, it would indeed be good to see how long it would take to neutralize itself. Question is: where are we going to find a willing guinea pig?" pondered Fred.

The boys looked at Hermione, who stood up defiantly. "Not even _maybe;_ I said I would help with your novelties, but not as a test subject."

George groaned. "The teachers will question us if _we_ start puking endlessly day and night. So who?"

Suddenly, her first night in Slytherin flitted into her mind's focus, followed by a particular Slytherin's still-vivid raving: "A MUDBLOOD! WE HAVE A _MUDBLOOD_ IN SLYTHERIN!"

She experienced no rage at the recollection, and even sneered at the opportunity presented before herself.

"I nominate," she spoke, her voice fiendish, "Draco Malfoy."

Save Moaning Myrtle, all occupants of the lavatory sneered wickedly.


	18. Chapter 18

The revelation of who his parents really were, the knowledge of the Dark wizard who killed them, his fortune locked within the bowels of Gringotts, and the revealing of his being a wizard - all of these things had hit Harry James Potter like a bullet.

The eleven year old was grateful to have had Hagrid helping before his term started, and Hermione at his side during Potions. Snape's predilection for Slytherins was more than apparent, and Harry knew that Snape's nastiness towards him was more acidic than any amount he sent towards the other Gryffindors. But he wasn't exactly foreign to the cold treatment of adults...

Harry and Ron's conversation echoed down the corridors amid their walk back to the Gryffindor common room.

Ron snorted. "My brothers were a couple of gits long before they donned their Slytherin robes. Like I said before, nearly everyone in our family has been in Gryffindor, our parents and other siblings included. Mum and dad aren't really bothered with them belonging to Slytherin, not when there is so much _worse_ to their personalities than that!"

"I take it you don't get along well with them?" Harry rhetorically asked with a smirk.

"I just can't put my finger on what they're up to and why they want _Granger_ involved?"

Harry could see no reason to view Hermione associating with Fred and George strange; the three of them were in the same House, after all.

A week ago during study hall, Hermione had introduced Harry and Ron to the triplets she shared a dorm with. Midway into their conversation as they sat at the wooden table with books and papers scattered atop it, the girls explained to Harry the meaning of the word Mudblood.

"That's _horrible,"_ Harry had hissed.

"It shouldn't really be taken to heart, though," Lucie said. "Malfoy isn't fond of us either."

This took Hermione by surprise, as the sisters were Purebloods themselves. "Why is that?"

"We're what Malfoy and his gang of pretentious swots call _Blood Traitors,"_ Lizzie replied. "There aren't many Purebloods left, and those who don't agree with blood purity are labeled that by the wizards that do."

"We're proud to be Purebloods, but no one in our family gives a Centaur's hind leg about persecuting Muggle-borns or preserving purity. We neither endorse nor discriminate them," Laurie said with a shrug.

"Well I know not all Slytherins are bad," Harry said when he and Ron reached the Fat Lady's portrait. "I met a few more of them days ago."

Harry and Ron entered the common room. Ron was about to challenge Harry to a game of Wizard's Chess when the two of them noticed a cat sitting near the fireplace.

"Mrs. Norris?" Harry gasped. The cat turned and looked at the two boys with her yellow, lamp-like eyes. Harry walked over and gently scooped up the feline in his arms. "How'd you get in here?"

Scabbers rushed out from under one of the chairs to the safety of Ron's pant leg. His owner hastily picked him up. "Chasing after Scabbers again, eh? You wretched little _throw rug!_ Hope you slip should you decide to chase an owl to the top of Ravenclaw's tower!"

Harry knew that understanding Ron's words was impossible for the cat, but clearly her senses were able to discern the hostility they were tinged with. Thus, she sent him a hiss and wriggled in Harry's arms.

"Stop egging her on, Ron!" Harry barked, fighting to restrain Mrs. Norris. "Go up to our dorm and hide Scabbers. I'll take Mrs. Norris back to Filch."

"Safe trip, then," Ron stiffly replied. He kept a firm grip around Scabbers's body and a watchful on Mrs. Norris before scuttling off to the boys' dormitories.


	19. Chapter 19

Harry didn't know where Filch was, but if Mrs. Norris wasn't anywhere to be found, the boy could only imagine the madness the grumpy caretaker must have been enduring; it was no secret that Filch was quite attached to the cat, and if he knew that Harry - or any Gryffindor for that matter - saw her in the common room and made no attempt to bring her to him, he might have earned more ire than when Filch caught him lost in the corridors.

Mrs. Norris purred in Harry's arms as he called out for Filch, his timid voice echoing down the intimidating architecture of the corridors. Hogwarts had felt more like a home in one month than number four, Privet Drive had ever felt during any of the eleven years he had been alive. Normal children would be marking down the days until summer vacation - not Harry.

Harry would be savoring every day, class, and lesson he had until it was time for him to return to Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley's malice. Compared to those ghastly three, tolerating Snape was a joyful run through a meadow of lilies.

Mrs. Norris's head nuzzled Harry's chin as he descended the stairs leading away from the common room's entrance. "Mr. Filch! I've found Mrs. Norris!"

Harry was spared his search once he reached the bottom of the stairs. There was a faint sound of shuffling feet and frantic grunts, and Filch was jumping out before Harry, startling him so badly he nearly dropped Mrs. Norris.

"Potter!" he gasped. Fraught beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and disappeared into his furrowed eyebrows as he eyed the boy and cat. _"What are you doing...doing out of...?"_

Harry gulped and cautiously put the cat down so that she could hurry to her master's shoes. "Mrs. Norris slipped into our common room. I was looking for you so I could bring her back to you, is all."

The dismay in Filch's features relaxed into exiguous gratitude, but Harry was still nervous.

"I suppose you're expecting thanks, boy?" he growled.

"N-No...not really. I can just go back to the common room, if that's okay," he nervously responded.

Filch was notorious amongst the students for sniffing out mischief and punishing students, and Mrs. Norris played her part in his crusade. But Harry wondered, as he stared trembling in Filch's flickering glare, if he was actually considering letting him off the hook.

Filch looked down at Mrs. Norris, who stared back up into the eyes of her owner. Harry silently observed this, and from what he could speculate the two were having some sort of silent conversation.

Filch looked at Harry again and kept his eyes on him as he picked up Mrs. Norris. "Back to your common room then, boy," he said without emotion before turning his back on him.

"Yessir!" Harry wheeled around and scuttled up the steps.

He hadn't stopped to confirm it, but before he walked away, Harry could have sworn that Filch lowly forced out between his teeth a terse "Thank you."

* * *

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were exchanging cruel jibes about the stuttering Professor Quirrell's "ridiculous-looking turban" when Fred and George walked into common room, guffawing loud enough to draw the attention of several other Slytherins.

"Did you see the look on her face when she realized they were gone?" George snorted. _"My taffies! Who has taken my taffies? Please! Help me find them, someone!"_

While many of the others simply rolled their eyes and returned to their studies or conversations, Malfoy and his hulking acolytes kept their ears open without looking at the twins.

Fred dangled a small black drawstring bag between his fingers. "She's probably bawling her eyes out. For someone so smart, the Muggle-born sure was easy to steal from."

They were passing by the lounging trio when George asked, "Are you gonna eat those, or what?"

"Nah, let's let Granger find 'em," replied Fred. Fred flung the bag away, paying no heed to where it landed - which happened to be behind the leather couch Malfoy was seated in. Crabbe and Goyle stared silently at each other while Malfoy turned in his seat to eye the discarded bag. He swiftly swiped it up when upon seeing Hermione hurrying through the common room's entrance...


End file.
